


Serendipity

by kaurakahvi



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Library, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Dates, First Kiss, First Meetings, M/M, Nightmares, Sharing a Bed, Sleep Deprivation, Snow, Workplace Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-27
Updated: 2020-09-27
Packaged: 2021-03-07 20:02:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26683384
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaurakahvi/pseuds/kaurakahvi
Summary: In which Martin picks the worst day to come asking for a job.
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 28
Kudos: 206





	1. How to win friends (and influence superiors)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Nappi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nappi/gifts).



> Everything's fine!!!! Everything. Is. Fine! Nothing to see here! It's ALL GOOD.
> 
> Anyway, Nappi wanted a library AU, since apparently my previous library AU wasn't cutting it for her. (Joke, I still want to frame your comments on it on my wall.) And... well, I'm always looking for two things: 1. An excuse to write more fanfic, the more pointless the better, and 2. Art trades where I get to do nothing (see: write a fic I already wanted to write) while blackmailing my friends for art in return. [Please check out her work](https://nappi.tumblr.com/tagged/nappiart), she's a phenomenal artist - and her Jon is my Jon, nobody get between me and this visual for the Archivist ever again.
> 
> Afaik there's no spoilers in this fic if you've so much as touched the podcast previously AND listened to the Dog Incident clip, but if there are and I forgot them and you weren't that far into the series yet, I'm... truly sorry.

* * *

The book rested idly on Jon’s lap. He wasn’t reading it. The bus was too full of people and the sunshine was too bright and the hellscape in his brain didn’t want to budge, so there he was. How many mornings like this had he had by now? It was becoming a running joke - for Tim, at least, because the man had neither the tact nor the good will not to mock a man already on his knees. That’s how Jon felt, anyway. The nightmares pressed on him like a heavy weight laid across his body, preventing him from moving freely, even so much as to breathe without a sense of tightness in his ribcage. 

”You look like shit,” Tim liked to tell him every morning.

It was really setting the mood. 

When the bus came to a halt, he packed up his book, closing it from the same page he’d opened it half an hour before. Not today, it seemed. His eyes burned when he stepped out and made his way through the cold street. Snow was falling and the roads were frozen, and he tucked his hands in the pockets of his coat for the time it took him to reach his destination. And then, there he was: grinning, leaning his back to the doorway Jon walked through.

”You look like shit, boss.”

Like a clockwork. Jon gave him a glance and passed him, placing down his bag and starting to undo his coat. Large, heavy bundles of snowflakes had landed on it and were now melting in the library’s warmth. He ran his fingertip through one and watched it turn into water at his touch.

”Have you ever heard of this thing called sleep?” Tim continued - he was like a shadow at Jon’s back.

”No,” Jon told him, ”I’ve never heard of it. Don’t you have work to do?”

”Plenty,” Tim replied cheerfully, ”but since I just came in, I think I deserve a break.”

”You do realise who you’re speaking to? I’m still in a position to fire you.”

”And I’m not really scared of you, Jon, no offence.”

Their eyes met. Then Jon sighed; he didn’t have the energy to deal with Tim Stoker today. He could sleep in the backroom all day if he wanted, he decided, knowing well that the man wouldn’t - he did have something of a work ethic down there somewhere, he just liked to do things the way he liked them, at his own pace and with his own methods.

”Have you seen Sasha yet?” he asked instead.

”Nope,” Tim replied. He’d sat down and dug out an apple from his bag, and he had his long legs stretched out and crossed like he owned the place. ”Haven’t seen her.”

He took a bite of his apple, and Jon’s stomach twisted. He’d missed breakfast again trying to get the last five minutes of sleep before leaving. By now, it was becoming rather evident that he had.

”Tell her to come talk to me if you do.”

And with that, Jon was out of the door again. The morning was quiet, as they usually were, as he made his way around the building. The windows gave out to a cozy if cold view of London in late November, with the streets filled with cars making their way to work around the city and pedestrians doing the same, with students and workers clutching their bags and hiding their hands as Jon had done just a moment earlier. Yet he felt disconnected from them here. It wasn’t a new experience, but he was certain the distance between him and them had grown larger after he’d began to have his nightmares. It was as if he was separated by that veil of sleeplessness, like he was never fully _here_ the way they were. Not present like everybody else.

He rested his weight over one foot and hung his hands by his fingers from the pockets of his trousers. His feet tingled and his face felt numb. He glanced to his side at the chairs set out there for reading, and he really just wanted to take one and lay down his head on the table and give up already, but he knew well what would follow, and he didn’t want that to become a public spectacle. It was bad enough in his own bedroom. Not to mention...

A man had just entered the library. His cheeks were red from the cool air outside and he was hiding his chin underneath a hand-knitted red scarf that hung down over his chest. A patron, no doubt; Jon had never seen him before. Sighing, he pushed himself back into movement - he didn't want to come across as another patron, and he didn't want to make himself appear _available_ in any shape or form if he could avoid it, so he returned to his desk and sat down, pulled forwards some papers and turned on the computer screen beside him. The man who'd just entered made his way between the shelves and disappeared. He didn't seem to need any help, which suited Jon just fine.

The next time he saw the man, he was coming straight for the desk.

"Hi," the man said, his voice sounding breathless and nervous. He had a pile of books with him, which he now placed on the table.

Young adult, fantasy - he had to read a lot, Jon thought, and not one of his choices was worth it. That thought must have been visible on his features, or else his lack of a response came as a surprise, as the man drew a nervous breath and seemed to withdraw a little further away from Jon. It annoyed him. It annoyed him _a lot_. The majority of the spark he felt within him was no doubt thanks to his state, which hadn't improved since he'd been eyeing the chairs earlier, but as he was checking through the books he could just barely bite his tongue to refrain from commenting on it. What a waste of time.

"So..." the man began over as he was receiving his books back.

"So?" Jon replied shortly. He was trying his best to not sound like the man was personally offending him, but he was.

"I... heard - well, I... I actually _read,_ you know, the - the notice on the door."

Christ. The man wanted a job. That's why he was so nervous. Jon lifted his gaze and took him in, measuring him from head to toe. He looked like he belonged in a library, buried in papers and old books and dust. The thought must have delighted him. That, and - well, he was... he had a kind, soft look about him. Like he'd do anything to please someone.

"I was wondering if I could - apply? Who should I talk to?"

"Me," Jon told him, then fell silent again. His death stare might have not affected Tim anymore, but it certainly seemed to affect this man - he seemed to be holding himself very, very still, perhaps in the fear of squirming visibly. "What's your name?"

"Oh, I'm - I'm Martin. Martin Blackwood."

"Any particular qualifications you'd like to mention?"  
_Give me ones I could possibly care about_ , Jon added in his mind.

"Well, it's a part-time job and I was - I was hoping, you know, maybe you'd cut me some slack?"

"So none, then."

"That's not quite... I brought my resume, if you'd like to look at it?" Martin offered.  
He then proceeded to drop a book off the table while trying to reach into his bag, and although the curse he muttered under his breath was nearly inaudible, Jon didn't miss it. As he half-way reached up to return the book on top of the pile, another one slid down and disappeared in his open bag. He glanced at Jon and seemed flustered.  
"It's here somewhere, I promise."

"I'll be at work for the next seven hours, so take your time," Jon answered dryly.

"Good," Martin said, then immediately backtracked. "I mean - I'll find it in a minute."

"Do you want me to take time?"

"No! I mean, you can, I..." he had his hand in his bag and wasn't looking anywhere near Jon, who dared to let the corner of his mouth curve up. "I found it."

Martin was even more breathless when he slammed his now rather crumpled-looking resume on the table. Jon straightened it out and gave his worst impression of caring while looking it through. The man really had no business looking for a job in a library, but he was right - it wasn't a permanent position, and they needed someone to deal with the organization. The fact alone that Jon was sitting here was a glaring sign that they needed another man on board. He let his eyes drift up from the papers and examined Martin again.

"You read a lot," he pointed out then, nodding vaguely towards the books.

"I - I do," Martin said hastily, "I really like reading."

"So I assume you know literature, hopefully in a broader context than you prefer _reading_ it."

Martin blushed.  
"I know my way around a library, if that's what you're asking."

"I'm not asking anything."

It was immediately evident to Jon that he was starting to get on Martin's nerves. Good, he thought; the way Martin was submitting to him was quite honestly irritating him as much as anything else about this encounter. He watched Martin give him a glare back in return as he handed him back his resume. _This is unfair_ , the man's entire presence was telling him. Yes, it was; Jon leaned forwards and crossed his fingers underneath his chin.

"When would you like to start working?" he asked then, his voice calculating and eyes keen on Martin, who jumped a little.

All of a sudden all defiance had vanished from his aura like it had never existed, and instead, he seemed to positively _glow_ with relief and cautious excitement.

"I could start right now, but I guess that's too much to ask? Well, I'm... I'm free tomorrow."

”Tomorrow will be fine,” Jon said.

He reached out and pushed the pile of books closer to Martin, who let out a little gasp and started loading them up in his bag. Then he appeared to be leaving but thought better of it at last minute, turning back to Jon with some hesitation evident in the slow movement; his eyes caught Jon’s and he gave him a timid smile.

”Did I make this awkward?” he asked.

Jon stayed quiet. He wanted to tell Martin it was his own fault, but he couldn’t; the annoyance was still too close to surface, and he just wanted to see the other man gone. Finally Martin sighed and shrugged.

”Alright, well, I’ll be here tomorrow.”

”Tim will show you around,” Jon told him.

”Okay. I’ll - I’ll look for ’Tim’, then. Should I leave you my number, or...?”  
  


* * *

  
It wasn't exactly instant regret that Jon felt about his decision to hire Martin; in fact, the first feeling he had of the deal was relief. It would mean far less time for him at the front desk, and more time doing what he was _supposed_ to be doing - filing, ordering, matching and organising the contents of the library - for the first time in months. The second thing he felt, however, was definitely regret, and he felt it the very first thing the next morning upon entering the library.

There was mud and water everywhere, dragged along the floor from the front door to everywhere between the shelves, and he could see Martin just about poking out from behind some shelves in the cooking section. He was on all fours exhibiting some sort of a twisted child's pose, with his arm outstretched out of view. Tim was positively glowing when he moved between Jon and the sight.

"Hi, boss," he greeted Jon, sounding like he'd never had more fun in his life. "We're dealing with a bit of an - issue - here. Would you mind turning back and pretending you're late for work by, say, forty minutes?"

"I'm not late for work. What is going on?" Jon asked in a sharp tone, pushing past Tim.

"You really, really don't want to know," Tim assured him.

Jon already knew that, but all the same he was walking to where Martin was now crouching instead of crawling on the floor, and the fact that Martin went an entire shade paler than he'd been before upon spotting Jon gave him some minor satisfaction.

"What," he repeated with the heaviest tone of his voice, "is _going on._ "

It was less of a question and more an expression of disbelief. Martin staggered up from the floor and wiped his dirty hands to the sides of his pants.  
"I can explain," he promised, but didn't sound the part.

"Can you?" Jon asked quietly. 

Martin looked at Tim for help. Surprisingly, Tim was eager to offer it, stepping closer to the new employee and crossing his arms on his chest. Jon raised a brow at him.

"Martin's a good man," he told Jon, as if he'd asked, and Martin squirmed.

"Explain."

"There was a dog on the loose. No owner, just an attached leash, you know? This man," Tim announced, releasing his arms to pat Martin on the back so that the man practically doubled forwards from the impact, "decided to be the hero and take the dog with him until we could get him to a vet - you know, to check for a microchip, the like. The good man here decided that his first day at work was less important than making sure this animal was safe and sound, and I agree, so he brought it to the library thinking that it could chill and wait in the back while he works, and, well, you see, this is where everything went to hell."

"I'm so, so sorry, Jon - Jonathan - Mr. Sims?" Martin coughed up and blushed deeply.

Jon stared at him. Then, slowly, his eyes turned to the movement he saw behind Martin, and indeed... under the table was a dog, the dirtiest and wettest dog that Jon had ever seen, shaking itself violently with its ears flopping from side to side, like a hurricane of filth and melted snow. It smelled like a dog very, very heavily.

"He fits right in, doesn't he?" Tim said proudly, his hand now squeezing Martin's shoulder. "Can we keep him?"

"The dog or Mr. Blackwood?" Jon asked in a colourless voice.

"Both," Tim answered, "but I think the dog might be an allergy complaint in the making, so maybe _just_ Mr. Martin Blackwood here."

Jon's gaze slid back up to Martin and nailed itself in his eyes.  
"Get it out of here," he told him in no uncertain terms, "and clean the floors."

"Please, please don't fire me," Martin pleaded in a broken cry, "I really, really need this job. This won't ever happen again, I've - I've never found a stray before. I swear, I couldn't just leave it either, not in the streets with the cars and -"

"Get. It. Out."

"He means the back," Tim unhelpfully translated to Martin, "Let's catch him and resume the plan in its original form."

"I very much do _not_ mean in the back," Jon complained, but only Martin seemed to be listening to him.

Martin gave him a very apologetic gaze but Tim was already circling the table to corner the dog underneath, and Jon realised that since there were three sides to the table through which the dog could escape, they were a man short in catching it. Reluctantly, he moved himself stiffly around the table as well, and he could _feel_ Martin's grateful, relieved glance on him as he settled there. Then the man dropped on his knees again and reached under the table, and for a moment or two the air was filled with the sounds of scratching and scuttling, with Martin finally emerging as the victor with the wriggling animal in his grasp. His shirt, formerly pale blue, was now more the shade of mud from the streets.

"Makes you miss the cold yesterday, doesn't it?" Tim asked gleefully. "Come on, Martin, let's get it to safety before Jon throws it out."

"If it gets out one more time today..." Jon warned, but Tim waved his hand unconcernedly.

"It won't, boss."

With that, they were gone. Jon looked at the devastation in the building and realised slowly it was much lesser than he'd originally thought. Yes, there was mud absolutely everywhere, but that was it; nothing was damaged. Nothing was broken. Nothing much was out of place, save for the chairs that had surrounded the table before. With a sigh, he pulled up one of them and sat down in it. He crossed his arms and turned his gaze to the weather outside, which was decidedly more watery than the day before: the snow wasn't exactly melting, but the tires of each passing car were dragging up the muck from beneath it and the warm shoes of pedestrians were melting the rest into a slush. The dog had looked like it had been out for hours. In that traffic, it might not have survived for much longer. Jon wondered where it had come from.

"Hey," Martin's voice came from beside him, stirring him from his thoughts. "I'm... really sorry about all of this."

Jon lifted his gaze to him and watched him for a moment before nodding briefly.  
"Just get it cleaned before it becomes an issue."

"Alright. I'm... I will. And I'm sorry for calling you 'Jon', too. I didn't mean to, Mr. Sims. It's just - Tim calls you that, and I panicked."

Jon shook his head.  
"Everyone calls me Jon."

"But we don't exactly know each other. It wasn't - I didn't mean to come across rude."

"I know."  
He hesitated for a moment. Weariness pressed upon him again as if he'd had the chance to forget about it throughout this little incident, but now it was back with force; he lifted his arm to cover up a yawn and then shook his head.  
"You can stay in the back today: we have a lot of things to organise and label, and you won't need to worry about the dirty clothes. Just keep an eye on the animal while you're at it."

"You don't really like dogs, do you?" Martin asked.

Jon glanced at him and thought for a moment.  
"I have no problem with dogs," he said then, "except when they're in my library."

Martin smiled a little bit and nodded.  
"I swear this won't happen again."

Jon nodded too.  
"It's good you picked it up," he confessed then, "Whoever owns it is an ass for letting it loose to begin with, but the dog doesn't deserve to die for their carelessness. None of us is allergic, so it can stay in the back until - until later."

"I have a vet appointment for it after work," Martin said, "I can feel the microchip in its ear so the owner should be easy to track down. I'm - I'm so sorry for this whole - I know it's my first day and this isn't really the impression I wanted to make, but..."

"You couldn't just leave it be."

"Yeah."

Jon nodded again.  
"It's fine, Martin."

Martin relaxed visibly, his shoulders dropping a good distance as he exhaled. He seemed so kind and caring, Jon thought; that irritating softness about him was really getting to him, really digging its way through his evident decision to not like Martin. He was hard to not like, it turned out. There was a sincerity to him that Jon hadn't felt about many other people. He wasn't putting up a front for him, and everything he said seemed genuine, like he was desperate to be liked and accepted, or at least to keep his job here for whatever time it would be for. Maybe permanently, if indeed he wouldn't be bringing in any more strays from the streets, Jon thought, though of course it'd depend on how reliable he'd turn out to be in the long run. The signs so far weren't exactly in his favour, however.

"Clean up the mess," Jon told him then, lifting himself out of his chair. It was then he realised for the first time that he was rather... _small_ in comparison to Martin, who, now that he wasn't bowing his head out of whatever horror Jon's presence was usually imposing upon him, stood taller than him. "When Sasha comes in, ask her for the materials."

"Alright," Martin breathed out, evidently relieved that he'd gotten off the hook. "I'll go find - something - somewhere... I'll get it done."

"The door beside the bathrooms. Ask Tim for the key."

"Gotcha."  
  


* * *

  
Martin wasn't the best or the worst man Jon had ever worked with. He wasn't particularly fast with his work but he did do a thorough job at it, and after all, the library wasn't exactly the busiest environment for him to be working at, so his unhurried manner of completing his tasks didn't get in the way of everyday business. He came in at time every day, never late and never early, and for the main part spent his time alone in silence doing what he was supposed to be doing spare for the occasional moment Jon caught him daydreaming instead. It was unsurprising that he wasn't the kind of a man to make the place feel alive - that was Tim's job, and he overdid it daily - but he contributed nothing negative to the environment, and instead, his presence made the place feel more... homely, more comfortable. And, yes, it did free Jon from the work he didn't want to be doing, at least for the main part; he didn't particularly enjoy shifting through the reading of every visitor to the library. Like Martin, most of them never brought out anything worth the while anyway. It shouldn't have irritated him and it _hadn't_ before he'd stopped sleeping - now every little thing was an affront to him personally, and that involved strangers wasting their lives away on books that he, personally, wouldn't have bothered with.

So the days went. The library stayed quiet the closer to Christmas they got and then, suddenly, bustled with activity for a few days when everyone suddenly remembered the existence of it in wake for the holidays and the spare time they all thought they were going to put into reading for the first time that year. It was one of those days - busier than usual, but not exactly crowded - that Martin showed up from his lunch break with two cups of takeaway in hand.

"Hey, Jon?" he said, his voice quiet and diplomatic, perhaps a little hopeful.

Jon lifted his head but didn't turn his gaze to him. He was used to answering questions, and Martin was used to him not paying any particular attention to him while he asked them.

"It's rather chilly in here, isn't it?" Martin continued.

This wasn't one of his usual questions. It didn't sound like anything Jon should have replied to, in fact, and in the wake of it he kept lifting his head until he was looking at Martin properly.

"If you've got complaints to make about the heating, I really can't help you with it," he told him.

"Oh, no," Martin assured him, "I was just - it's December and all. It's... it's really cold everywhere right now. My house is like a fridge, personally, I - like coming in here, it's warmer. But it never gets _warm_ , you know?"

He drew out a seat beside Jon with the tip of his foot and sat down in it, planting his cups on the table. They smelled of cinnamon and spices.

"So... how are you doing?" he asked then.

Jon cocked his head indecisively.  
"I'm tired. The system's slow and I can't fill this order, I've tried two times and it just won't go through."

"Did you get anything for lunch?"

"Is that somehow pertinent to why you're here, Martin?" Jon asked in turn.

Martin chuckled and shrugged.  
"I guess," he said then, pushing one of the cups closer to Jon. "I hope you like chai lattes? They had a - a sale, two for one, so... you know, I - I thought you might enjoy one, since I didn't see you with anything today."

The way Jon regarded the drink was suspicious for the first glance, like he expected it to contain poison, but he caught himself from that look and let his features smooth over before he looked back at Martin again. Martin smiled at him, although it was a timid smile, and he lifted the other cup and took a sip of it.

"It's really nice on a cold day like this," he said. "I didn't know - I mean, the deal seemed too good to skip, but everyone else had lunch, so..."

"Thank you, Martin."  
Jon wrapped his fingers around the paper cup and pulled it closer. The cinnamon-and-cloves scent that pillowed out of the drink combined with the warmth of the cup itself made him feel relaxed and calm.  
"For the drink and - and thinking of me, I suppose."

"I just... I don't know, you don't really... talk to anyone, or - you know? It just felt like you could use a nice gesture."

Jon felt a flicker of heat rising to his cheeks.  
"Well, if that's your reasoning then you're due for one as well."

"Everyone's been pleasant enough," Martin assured him. "Sasha's never anything but kind, and Tim's - well, he's... Tim."

Jon nodded.

"I wanted to... to thank you, really. For offering me the job."

"I didn't exactly offer it. I think I was trying to scare you out of asking for it, actually," Jon pointed out.

Martin laughed. It wasn't so timid anymore, but it was submissive, defeated.  
"I know. I really chose a bad time to ask for it, didn't I? I'd actually - been around here for some time, but I never had the courage to do it, and then I just... well, I chose the worst moment."

"It's not your fault."

"I know. Whatever it was, I know I didn't - well, I didn't exactly do a good job presenting my case, either, but I know you had your own reasons and didn't want to be bothered. I should have read the room better."

Jon shook his head.  
"I just don't like the front desk."

"Yeah. I've gathered that much."  
Martin's smile went crooked, sympathetic.  
"Do you really think my reading sucks?"

"Yes."

"Would you recommend something else? I've already read the bunch I had, so... I'm open for suggestions."

"Did you like that trash?" Jon asked him.

"Well - yeah, I did, actually," Martin told him, and in return, Jon smiled at him.

"Then you can keep reading it. It really isn't my place to tell you what you should be reading," he offered.

Martin chuckled.  
"Still," he insisted, "What do you read?"

"Non-fiction, mostly. I don't have time for fairytales. I don't have the focus or the interest to carry me through them. I want to use my time for something that matters, like learning, _knowing_ about things, about the world we live in."

"So like - biographies? True stories? You don't seem like the type for self-help books, really."

Jon laughed.  
"No," he agreed, "You're right."

He went quiet for a moment and sipped his drink, and it warmed him up, Martin was right about that: the library was chilly, the winter was chilly, and London was its usual grey, cold self, and the tea did bring about as if a wave of colour within it, a warmth that radiated from the inside out.

"I'll pick something out for you if you really want, on one condition."

Martin nodded.  
"What is it?"

"You tell me if you were honest about the two-for-one deal."

"Oh," Martin laughed, "Yes. You can go look yourself, it's valid until tomorrow. Just across the street, I didn't go that far. I guess that'd defeat the point of bringing you one, though."

"I suppose," Jon admitted.


	2. Taming the Beast

* * *

Something... shifted then. The following days were different: Jon would find himself watching Martin more often than he had before, noting down the times he was smiling or laughing or even speaking, and when he would simply sit amongst his work and boxes full of books or wander about the library sorting out the shelves. He did prefer the solitude, it seemed, as he wasn't often involved in the banter that Tim and Sasha engaged in on a regular basis, and which even Jon was dragged into every so often, but it couldn't be said that he was _excluded_. It was more that he was excluding himself, simply observing instead of participating. He seemed lonely, and the more Jon noticed it, the more he found himself caring about it and wishing he could do something to change it. Was that why Martin had brought him the tea to begin with? Because he wanted to connect with someone, and Jon seemed an appropriate target as he, too, was mostly quiet and solitary? Did he smell a kindred spirit in him? Jon couldn't figure out why; he didn't find himself particularly approachable, and it had never been the kind of an aura he wished to emit. And yet... yet Martin was drawn to him, and in turn, Jon felt something of an obligation to return his attention. He'd been right, hadn't he, about Martin's kind nature - he was caring, attentive and warm, and although he was also forgetful and somewhat clumsy, he never caused trouble because he wasn't trying his hardest, because he didn't _care_. To the contrary, he always seemed to care too much, and when he made mistakes he took them very personally. Jon didn't know whether to call him responsible or not: he did fuck up often enough to come across as absent-minded and somewhat unreliable, but it could never be said that this was out of a lack of trying. He did try his best, all the time.

It was getting to Jon. In fact, Martin - and being around Martin, and maybe even exchanging a few words with Martin - was quickly becoming his favourite part of his workday. And then, it became his favourite part of his day altogether. No, he couldn't deny it; he did look forwards to being around him. Martin was lighting up the dark end of the year days like a fireplace, warm and inviting, and in his company he never felt unwelcome. Jon hadn't felt this way in a while, but he couldn't place the way he felt: were they friends? They barely spoke to each other. Friends did more than that, didn't they? Not that Jon was good at friendships either. He tended to keep people at an arm's length, and that... that was the problem here, he concluded. He was keeping Martin at an arm's length.

And so, with New Year approaching and the library closing, he decided he didn't want to go the rest of the year without Martin's company. It required a simple action: talking to him. So he would, he decided. 

Tim was always the first out of the door. If Jon didn't know better, he would have said that Tim was _imprisoned_ within the library and the moment the cage's door opened each afternoon he was out like a trapped cat escaping into freedom. Sasha took her time; she was never in a particular hurry getting her things together and in her bag, but she was nevertheless always out before Jon and Martin were. Martin, on the other hand, was always the last to leave. At first Jon had been hesitant to let him stay behind - after all, what was he doing there? It didn't seem like he was doing anything malicious, however. He'd never caused any further fuss after his first day in, it just looked like he didn't want to leave, and Jon was alright with that. If he wanted to put in unpaid work, then... who was he to stop him? It wasn't his life. Today, it was only convenient.

"Are you busy with something?" he asked, approaching Martin who was making notes on his laptop in the corner of the room.

"Not particularly," Martin replied quickly, partially lowering his screen down. "Why? Is - is something wrong? Don't tell me: did I forget something again?"

Jon shook his head.  
"No," he said, "I just..."  
He didn't know what to say. He'd planned his approach but not his words, and now he was standing there with nothing to say.

With a deep breath in, he concluded with the only thing he could think of:  
"What are you working on?"

Martin seemed flustered at the question. His fingertips slid over his laptop's screen, pulling it further down ever so slightly in a clear sign that he didn't want Jon to see it.

"Just... my writing," he admitted then, "Nothing fancy, just - thoughts and... I shouldn't be doing it at work."

Jon shook his head and settled on the corner of the table that Martin was perusing for his work. He glanced over the other things he had there - paperwork, completed or half-completed, some books that looked like he was perhaps reading them or saving them for later, and a box of returns next to an empty cup of tea from the same shop he'd bought Jon his own that one day. 

"Technically you're not working anymore," Jon reminded him and made a point out of looking at the clock. "You got off fifteen minutes ago."

Martin pretended surprise and looked at the clock, too.  
"Oh, I... didn't even realise. Heh. Funny, I should - probably pack up, then, yeah? That's what you're here to tell me."

Jon shook his head again.  
"Not quite," he said, "To be honest, Martin, I don't care if you stay overtime every single day you work here. It isn't my business and if you'd like to be alone, I can go now. I guess I was just - I wanted to ask you something."

Martin looked relieved. He crossed his hands in front of his laptop, sliding it further towards the middle of the table, and gave Jon a curious look.  
"I'm all ears."

It was Jon's turn to feel flustered. He really should have planned this in advance, but the thought hadn't even occurred to him - he'd been too preoccupied with figuring out how to approach Martin to give a single coherent thought to what he'd do once they were supposed to talk about this.

"Would you like to spend some time together?" he asked then, blurting out the words before he realised how they must have sounded, but once they were out there they were really out there and it was too late to take them back, so he stood by them instead, trying his best to act as if he hadn't just asked his subordinate out for a date.

"You - you mean, outside of work?" Martin stuttered. He'd been visibly taken aback by the question - physically, even - and even his eyes were a little wider than before.

Jon shrugged.  
"I understand if you'd rather find your friends outside of work. Keeping a professional distance is..."  
 _Not what you're good at, Jonathan Sims_ , he finished for himself.

"Oh, no, not at all, I'd - I'd love to - do something with you outside of work. That'd - that'd be fantastic," Martin hurried to answer him. 

Jon felt himself smile and for once he relaxed into it, unafraid of showing his relief at Martin's words. Well, this was going - not according to the plan he hadn't come up with, but well enough.

"I assume you've got plans for tonight," he said then, but Martin shook his head.

"I was just - can I be honest with you? You won't like... fire me for saying this?"

"I don't know, will I have to?" Jon asked in return and Martin shrugged.

"I usually just stay late at work because - well, I do work, too, if I haven't finished everything for the day, but mostly just to write, because I like it here. It's good for writing. Something - something to do with it being a library, maybe? I don't really know. But I really don't have anything else planned up for today, and the words aren't really flowing, so... you couldn't have asked me at a better time."

Jon nodded.  
"Grab your things, then."

"Where are we going?"

He shrugged.  
"No idea," he answered honestly, and Martin laughed.

"Alright. Let me get ready and - I'll meet you at the door."

It was snowing again when Jon pushed the door open and breathed in the crisp city air. His heart was racing but he couldn't exactly pinpoint why - he was a little nervous, granted, but nervous enough to feel breathless and light-headed, too? He breathed out and closed his eyes. It had been a long damn time since he'd last spent time with anyone outside of work. The last time had been with... Georgie. Could it be? No; Tim had asked him and Sasha out for drinks last December. So a whole year ago, he'd gone out for fun. So was that it, or was he... Jon cut himself off. No, he wasn't. Simple as that. And even if he _was_ , then what? Certainly Martin wouldn't reciprocate.

Still, the thought made him smile - the smile was small, barely visible on his features, but when he opened his eyes again he was locking eyes with a stranger who'd no doubt witnessed it on his face. The stranger turned her gaze away in an instant, but Jon had seen her and he knew that she'd seen him, and he felt a weight settling in his stomach, a warm one, a cozy one, that anchored him to the earth. Maybe he did have feelings for Martin. Maybe it wasn't a bad thing. Maybe now was a good time. When else? Who else? He turned to look back at the library door and there Martin was, carrying his bag on one shoulder and wrapped in his scarf and his coat with fingerless gloves on.

"Where do you want to go?" he asked, and Martin smiled crookedly.

"That's not fair, you know? I asked you and you didn't know, so now it's my problem."

Jon chuckled and shook his head.  
"We can just wander if that's what you'd like."

"I'd like that. I don't remember just taking a walk with anyone before. It seems fitting - I've never met anyone like I met you, either."

"Never let a dog in on your first day at work before?" Jon asked, and they departed; where to, neither of them knew.

They just walked forwards through the snowy streets, lights shining bright upon them against the darkness of winter surrounding them and echoing from the snow beneath their feet. There were piles of it against the walls of the buildings on both sides, but where the sidewalk was still white, the streets themselves were naked and wet from the traffic. It all smelled like cold, and Jon pushed his hands inside his pockets and let the early night embrace him: the lights, the dark, and Martin's presence beside him all made him feel a certain way that felt decidedly like the dead months of the year, the quiet calm of hibernation in the waiting for spring. He looked at Martin and Martin looked at him as quickly as the stranger before had before turning away, and he buried his face in his scarf and pretended like he'd never met Jon's eyes.

"I wasn't expecting to make a friend. Especially after that. I was worried you'd hate me," he finally said, his voice muffled by the cloth over his face. 

"I tried very hard to give that impression at first," Jon admitted.

"You did. It didn't work. I - I guess I didn't take it personally? Like I said before, I knew you were dealing with something, and it's fine, really. I just picked the wrong time, is all."

"So," Jon changed the subject, "You kept mentioning that you were 'writing'. What are you _actually_ doing back there in the library?"

Martin let out a terrified little chuckle and seemed to shudder slightly.  
"Don't laugh, alright?"

"I won't," Jon promised, although he couldn't help but smile.

"So, I... I write poetry," Martin confessed, diving ever deeper into his scarf. He was by now all but threatening to disappear into it completely - only his eyes were still poking out. "I'm not saying it's good or anything, but - I like it, and I think that's what matters."

Jon let out a sound, and Martin cast a sharp look at him.

"You promised not to laugh," he reminded him, and Jon nodded.

"I did, and I won't," he assured Martin, "I think - I think that's... nice, Martin."

"Yeah, I know, it's a lame hobby."

"No, it's... for someone working at a library, I think you fit well."

"Thank you."

They passed a crowd of drunken people reminding Jon that this was a Friday night, and one just before the New Year, too. Martin began to emerge from his scarf again once they were past the group, and he examined Jon for a moment. Jon looked back at him and felt his smile returning. There was something there, he was certain of it now; how he'd missed it for this long, he didn't know, but his stomach tightened in an all too familiar manner whenever he now looked at Martin and his words held special weight in his ears, like every syllable he spoke was clearer against the noise of the night than they should have been. Like they shone through the background somehow.

"Would you let me see some of it?" he asked then.

"Oh, I don't know. Like I said it's - it's nothing special. I write for myself, really. To vent and... it's not interesting, really."

"I'm interested."

Martin squinted at him and broke into a timid smile.  
"You'd be the first," he told him, and Jon was surprised.

"Really?"

"I don't really - oh, God, you're going to think I'm some kind of a... basement-dwelling freak. I'm not, I promise, I just - I don't go out much or - or talk to that many people, you know? I mostly... well, my mum is sick. She needs me. So I... I go to work, you know, I write a little and I try to pay the bills for us both. It doesn't leave too much time for anything else."

"I'm sorry," Jon told him on reflex, "It... sounds tough."

"Don't worry about it. It's fine."

"I'd still like to hear it," Jon continued, pressing him a little.

Martin laughed. He pulled his hands out of his pockets and straightened his gloves, watching them as he did so in order to avoid Jon's gaze.   
"Thanks," he said then, "That means... a lot."

"Would you have one now?"

"God, no," Martin replied with haste without looking at him directly. Then he hesitated. "I'd have to close my eyes. I don't think I can do it to an audience."

Jon huffed warmly. He extended his hand towards Martin and arched a brow at him.

"What?" Martin said, then glanced at his hand and gasped. "No, you can't make me."

"Now you're just teasing," Jon pointed out.

"You're insufferable," Martin told him, and it made him laugh.

His hand stayed extended towards him, however, and finally Martin let out an exasperated sigh and placed his own into it. His hand was warm and soft and his grip implicit only, as if he was afraid to hold too much in the fear of having misunderstood the gesture. Jon wrapped his fingers around his hand and held it tighter.

"I'll lead," he said.

They walked slowly; they were now passing a snowy park and Jon took a turn there to enter the park itself, as it was less crowded, and Martin followed him hesitantly, his hand still trapped in Jon's. When they were under the heavy, drooping branches of the old trees that grew there he finally closed his eyes and his breath shivered as he exhaled.

"There's a place," he spoke, his voice barely more than a mutter, "A place of warmth and silence, of dusty books and dustier floors, that I like to go to. A place so full of people that it aches sometimes, the presence of so many in a space for so few."

He drew breath and opened his eyes, glancing at Jon with the distinctive look of terror in his eyes.

"This is stupid," he said, and Jon shook his head, so he closed his eyes again. Snowflakes were piling up on his shoulders: they decorated his hair and sat over his sleeves. It took him a while to speak again, and through that silence they moved across the park's dark where even the noise of the traffic became a muffled backdrop to all the snow.   
Then he continued: "I watch them and wait, wait for a chance to be a part of that crowd. I reach out and I speak, but I can't hear my words. Did I even try, I ask myself; did I really reach, did I really speak, or was it all just a thought that crossed my head? There's a place, a place where I wait and see - in the presence of so many in a space for so few."

He opened his eyes only to look away, pretending intense interest in their surroundings. It really was dark here, with only the occasional lamp covering a distance of shadowy grounds, but the city was still present and its lights were still glowing through the trees and bushes. They were nearing the exit, and through it Jon could see the window of a clothes store closed for the night.

"I know that was really, _really_ bad," Martin finally said, "I'm better at writing than improvising."

"You improvised that?"

"I mean... yeah? I wasn't exactly reading it from a note or anything. I know, I know, it's - I _promise_ I can do better when I have the chance to think about it first."

He hadn't let go of Jon's hand yet, and Jon let that hold linger between them, slowing his pace ever so slightly from before to give them the permission to stay that way for a moment longer. He wondered if Martin had forgotten about it, or if he just enjoyed the touch like he did... the warmth of it, the comfort of it, and the stability it offered alongside this buzzing, fantastic excitement that was brewing in his chest like electricity. When it was Martin who slowed down before they were within the reach of the street's lights, Jon felt himself tensing; instead of releasing his hold, Martin held his hand tighter and turned to him, finally stopping them completely. It was hard to see anything there - the spot between the lights was so dark - but it didn't matter because Jon could still _feel_ Martin beside him and sense the gaze he was giving him like a silhouette staring back at him.

"I think I want to kiss you, Jon."  
Martin's grip tightened, perhaps in the fear of Jon trying to pull away from him now.  
"I know that's too much. I know _I'm_ too much. But - I do, and that's that."

Jon didn't try to pull away from him. In fact, he let his body settle right where it was: his feet on the snowy ground, one hand in his pocket, the other one now trapped in Martin's grip and not the other way around. He breathed in and out in silence and felt his skin turn to goosebumps, and his exhale was as shaky as he felt inside, like all that electricity in his chest had now released into his stomach and head and throat and limbs and fingers and toes and he was just barely holding himself standing. He smiled, the expression a dark shadow against the darkness of his silhouette drawing against the darkness of the park behind. Then he pulled his hand out of his pocket and reached for Martin's scarf, tugging at it gently from the side.

"It'd be hard," he said in a voice that did its best not to break from nerves, "through that."

Martin bowed his head. He looked, for a moment, as if drawing together enough courage to speak had taken all that he had left in him, but then he laughed nervously and reached up to pull his scarf out of the way. Their eyes met, and Jon felt a distinctive twitch - a pull - inside him, one that was matched by the push of Martin's body colliding with his with the lightest of pressures, and he matched it to balance himself and brought his hand over Martin's jaw and ear. His heart was racing, but in the moment that their lips touched, he felt oddly quiet within, like everything was just as it should have been, and like this moment was forever and he had nothing to worry about beyond it. He leaned into the kiss and lifted Martin's hand together with his own still in its grip, and he pressed them both against Martin's face, leaving him with a soft noise that became muffled between their mouths. He was all warmth and the prickle of his facial hair this late in the evening, and Jon wanted nothing more than to feel all of him there, to let this moment stretch, but Martin didn't seem to be in any particular hurry either. Instead, when their mouths finally parted, he rested his head against Jon's shoulder for some time, and Jon had to wonder if it was a comfortable position for him or if he was just so starved for closeness that the odd bend of his spine didn't matter to him much in comparison. He let his arm wrap around Martin's body and he held him close, smiling against him and closing his eyes for a while.

"Can I do it again?" Martin asked then, his breath warm against Jon's neck.

Jon nodded. He felt Martin's chuckle against his lip when they kissed again, and this kiss was bolder than the previous, with their hands finally parting for Martin to bring his arms around Jon's body, and Jon followed his example. They ended up holding each other that way for some time, and in that span of minutes a woman with a dog passed them by, barely giving them a glance. It felt good somehow - to be seen, but not noticed. To blend in with the park and its shadows, but to belong in this world at the same time.

"Would you like something warm to drink?" Jon finally asked as the chill was starting to creep through his clothes.

Martin nodded with a breathless chuckle.  
"Actually, yeah. I'd like that a lot," he confessed, and they joined hands again to leave the park behind.  
  


* * *

  
He picked a mug of hot chocolate, and Jon bypassed his third cup of coffee in favour of something with less caffeine in it. It was getting late, late enough that they were ordering their drinks at a pub, but it served them all the same and the corner table provided them enough shelter from the rest of the patrons that they could talk in peace. It was so easy to smile and laugh in Martin's company, Jon noticed, and Martin seemed to share that feeling with him. Jon had never seen him in such good spirits; the smile on him never faded for long, and the way he looked at Jon made him feel... different: seen, rather than just watched.

"So tell me," Martin said then, his expression turning sharper and curious, "How bad was it really?"

"How bad was... what?"

"My poem."

"Not terrible," Jon huffed warmly and sipped his drink. "I think it's impressive that you can just come up with something like that."

"It really isn't," Martin countered, "It's - a rough draft, really. What would normally happen next is I... I read it through a few times and recite it out loud to hear what it sounds like, and then I make the changes it needs to be... better, I guess? Until I'm satisfied with it, or at least too tired to try to fix it anymore, that happens a lot too. That one's been in my mind for a bit but I've never really come up with a proper form for it. It's kind of all over the place, really. But you asked for it, so..."

"I don't consider myself very creative," Jon noted, "I... read a lot, but that's it. I don't write. I just observe and - the most writing I do is taking notes and sending emails. I mean it when I say it's impressive. I wouldn't be able to write a poem if I tried."

"Thank you."

"You should be proud of it."

"Thank you. I'll try."

He had a light mustache from the hot chocolate he was drinking. Jon watched him lick it away and felt that familiar heat crawling up his cheeks. He wanted to reach across the table and touch him, but the audience was too much; this wasn't a performance, and he didn't want to be watched.

"Can I ask you something else? Something more personal," Martin asked then, and Jon nodded, grateful that he was being distracted. "What was it really that bothered you the day I came to ask for work?"

"Oh," Jon sighed and leaned back in his seat. "I - I don't tend to sleep well. I was just tired. It really wasn't your fault."

"You're always tired," Martin pointed out.

Jon nodded.  
"More often than not." He hesitated for some time before continuing. "I have... nightmares. I can't get rid of them, it's - it's been a while now. I'm almost used to it, but it doesn't make me very pleasant to be around."

"Do you think it's - stress, maybe? You do need a vacation."

It made Jon chuckle. He shook his head.  
"I think it's just a part of who I am. Sometimes I can work around it, sometimes - less so."

"I don't mean to invade," Martin said in a calculating tone, "but do you think it'd be easier if you weren't alone?"

Jon leaned his chin down to his hand, his elbow resting against the ice cold window next to their table. He watched the traffic for a time and imagined it, imagined not spending the night alone, and although it made him a little nervous, he couldn't deny that there was a distinct undertone of comfort to the thought of someone's warmth closing in on him, of being able to reach not too far away and hold a hand in his when he woke up in the middle of the night from one dreadful vision or another. To imagine that someone being Martin... he did want it, didn't he?

"I really don't mean - you know. I don't want to..."

"It's... fine, Martin. You're right, it might - I think it would be better. I think I'd sleep better."  
The subject was somewhat difficult to approach: the right words weren't easy to pick.  
"You said your mother was ill."

Martin sighed.  
"Yeah. She - she is. I don't live with her anymore, though, I - I couldn't - she's in a care home now. So I won't be... you know, _missing_ , if I spend my night somewhere else. That's - if I'm honest, that's part of why I brought it up: I really don't like the silence of the house. I don't like the things it reminds me of. I guess I'd like to escape that for a bit, if it's not too soon for you. I understand if you think it is, I really do, but - I haven't felt this good in a while, Jon. I don't want it to end, and I really don't want to go back _there_ to end it."

Jon relaxed. He hadn't noticed he'd tensed, but there it was, that sweet release of relief.  
"You could sleep over," he said then, his voice calmer than he'd expected.

"You think that'd be... alright?"

Jon nodded.  
"I think it'd be fine."

Martin's expression brightened. He nodded in turn and sipped his drink eagerly, finally finishing it with another coat of chocolate over his upper lip. He wiped it away with his napkin and took a deep breath.  
"Alright, then," he said, "I'll need a toothbrush, but other than that I think I'll be fine if you'd like to go."

"I think we can arrange that. I have to warn you, though - the place is a mess. I wasn't exactly expecting a visitor tonight."

"I don't mind a bit of a mess, really."

"After seeing your workspace earlier, I don't doubt that for a moment," Jon huffed.

The further along they got, the more bringing Martin home felt like the right choice. He was quiet on the ride back and simply watched the scenery change as they moved further away from the library until the modern city with its busy, wide streets made way for the labyrinth of residential streets lined with terraced houses and their tiny front yards full of snow. It was late enough now that most windows were covered and many of them had their lights turned off entirely. Jon led them to a door that looked exactly the same with the ones to the left and right of it, and he opened it with his key, ears expecting the familiar creak as it let them in. Martin followed him, and they kicked off their shoes in the darkness of the entrance before Jon moved further in to turn on the lights.

"I like it," Martin announced the moment he'd left the entryway.  
His fingertips traced the bookshelves on the way towards the living room, and he was taking in the rooms with polite curiosity.

Jon walked ahead of him piling up magazines, notebooks and books into a more orderly arrangement, undoing the haphazard yet convenient disorganization that had reigned before they'd entered the house.  
"Like I said, it's... a mess."

Martin shook his head.  
"I know it's what they say about _real_ messes, but it just looks lived-in. Like someone calls this place home. I - I like that. It's exactly what my place lacks. I don't even want to call it a home, it's just... a place where I stay the night, really."

Jon nodded. He settled to lean against the wall of his living room and watched Martin wander around it.  
"The kitchen's there," he said then, nodding towards the doorway, "Use it as you need. The bathroom's upstairs and I can give you a towel if you'd like."

Martin smiled and gave a short nod at the information.  
"I'd like that."

"Where would you like to sleep?" Jon asked; they'd never made the arrangement he'd imagined official.

"Oh. I... I don't know, Jon. If you've got a guest bed - if it's not too much trouble? Or I could just... you know."

Jon gave him a warm huff.  
"I'll change the sheets in the bedroom while you shower."

Martin's smile widened and he nodded.  
"Alright. Jon?"

"Mm?"

"Is this - alright with you? I mean - for real."

Jon nodded.  
"I'll admit I wasn't expecting you to be sleeping in my bed tonight when I asked you out for a walk, but it seems it's where we've ended up, and I'm... fine with it if you are."

"I promise not to hog the bed."

"I will push you out if you do. I've lived with cats before."

"So you've practiced."

Jon nodded again.

"Well, then," Martin sighed, "That's settled. Could I have that towel, please?"

"Upstairs," Jon told him and gestured him to follow.

They climbed up the creaky stairs to the first floor, where the corridor remained a dark void beyond the reach of the lights glowing from downstairs. Jon turned on the one and only dim, yellow light that had for years needed replacing and opened the door to his bedroom. Martin stayed in the doorway - he seemed to remain uncertain whether he was invited that deep into Jon's territory yet.

"It's the door at the end of the corridor," Jon told him and handed him a clean towel. "The hot water is... it's hot, so make sure to turn on the cold first."

"Alright. Thanks. I'll - be a minute."

"Take your time."

Once he was gone, the shower was on and the bed had clean linens, Jon felt that familiar, prickly feeling of nervousness returning to his body. He took off his socks and then hesitated; he wasn't entirely sure how much skin he wanted to show with another man in his house. After all, he didn't know much about Martin, and even though he was almost positive that they had a mutual understanding of what would be and what would _not_ be happening tonight, the last thing he wanted was to give the wrong impression now. He searched for a while for an outfit that would give the right message, but there was really nothing in his wardrobe that spoke any language that he was fluent in, so in the end he pulled on an old tee and a pair of loose-fitting trousers and settled on the bed with his legs crossed and a book on top of them. It was the same book he'd been reading the morning he'd met Martin for the first time, and he hadn't progressed far in it since then. He could feel that morning on his skin as he turned the page, his head resting against his palm and his elbow digging into his leg. It wasn't that long ago.

What the hell was he doing?

The shower was off now, and in a minute, the door opened. Again Jon could feel a jolt of electricity in his body and he tried his best to act natural, but his fingers were growing cold and a certain tension had settled in his chest and throat that felt like he couldn't breathe just right anymore.

Martin appeared in the doorway again. His hair was wet and heavy around his face and he smiled awkwardly with the towel resting over his shoulder, and he wasn't wearing anything aside from his shirt and the boxer briefs that just barely peeked out from underneath.

"Hang it to dry on the door," Jon told him after giving him the briefest glance.

"Do you mind me just... diving in there like this or do you... have a blow dryer or something I could use...?"

"Don't worry about it."

"Okay. I just - don't want to be rude."

Jon shook his head.  
"If the pillow complains, I think we have bigger problems."

"Yeah."

Martin moved inside, but not far; he stayed within an arm's reach of the door and cleared his throat.  
"Do I - would you like me to close the door?"

"It can get cold if you don't. Depends on how you want to sleep."

"I don't really have a preference. I don't get hot or cold that easily. I just... I just sleep."

"Then close it just a little bit, please."

"Alright."

Jon had read the same sentence three times, but he didn't want to remove the book from his lap just yet. He could feel the lights in the corridor turning off, he could feel the door shifting, and he could _feel_ Martin crossing the room and then landing on the bed on the other side. Like him, Martin settled there cross-legged, but instead of sitting on top of his blanket he'd lifted it and promptly covered his bare legs with it.

"I realised I probably should have at least brought something decent to wear," Martin said in a quiet voice.

"Let's plan this ahead next time," Jon replied shortly.  
His hands shook a little when he finally moved the book off his lap and reached to turn off the lights. With a snap they were left in the darkness.

"Well, this is... weird," Martin's voice said from the dark.

"You don't say."

Jon pulled up his blanket and tried to disappear underneath it.

"Do you think I should _maybe_ take the guest bed after all?"

He sighed.  
"Martin?"

"Yeah?"

"Lie down."

"Okay."

He did. After he'd settled down, Jon turned to face him; he was hugging his blanket against his chest but his head was propped up by the pillow and in the light casting through the window he could see that Martin was on his back and watching the ceiling above.

"Thanks for letting me stay," Martin said, his gaze never moving.

"Can I ask you something?"

Martin nodded.

"How long have you..." Jon started, but his voice drifted into nothing.

Finally, Martin turned to face him.  
"How long have I...?"

"Had feelings for me."

"Oh."  
He turned back.  
"A while."

"Very precise."

He smiled.  
"Longer than I've worked for you," he confessed then. "Of course I didn't really _know_ you before, so it wasn't anything serious, but..."

"And now?"

"I guess I gave myself away with that one."

Jon nodded, and after a moment's silence Martin turned on his side to face him. They watched one another for some time and Martin kept smiling, and he let his hand poke out from beneath the sheets and moved it between them. Jon took it; he held it perhaps tighter than he'd intended to, but Martin's hand was as warm as before and his own fingers were cold and he needed that touch, that connection to shed the anxiety that was otherwise enveloping him. He wasn't good at this - at talking about feelings, or at relationships in general - but he was pretty good at holding hands, as long as nothing else was required of him.

"I didn't think you'd want anything to do with me," Martin said then, his grip turning tighter for a moment before relaxing again. "But I was happy that way, just working at the library and being near you. I hope that doesn't sound creepy - I wasn't expecting anything, really."

"Is that why you wanted the job?"

"No. I needed the job," Martin told him with a sigh, "I really did, and it was open, so... but it didn't really hurt that you were pretty."

"I don't think anyone's ever called me that."

"Well, maybe they should have."   
After a moment's silence, Martin continued: "What do you want to do?"

"What do you mean?"

"About this. About - us. Should we... I don't know, keep this a nice memory and move on, or would you... do you want to keep going?"

Jon could feel his heart skip a beat and he shivered despite the warmth of his blanket.  
"I'd like to keep going. I think... I think we should at least try it."

"That's what I want, too."

"Alright. So... it's official, then."

"I guess so," Martin agreed.  
His grip tightened again and he curled up, his knees kicking up and over to the middle of the bed. Jon mirrored him again, leaving their legs touching through the blankets.

"I might wake you up," Jon told him then, his tone hesitant. "I don't want to scare you, so I'm telling you now. It's..."

"The nightmares?"

He nodded. 

"Okay," Martin said.

"Okay?"

"Okay. Then you wake me up. I'll be here, Jon. I'm not going anywhere tonight. Your nightmares might scare you but I'm not scared by them. Wasn't that why I'm here? To help you?"

Jon closed his eyes.  
"Thank you," he said, his voice barely audible.

"Try to sleep, alright?"

"I'm - I'm sorry, Martin. In advance."

"Don't be. I've had a wonderful night. I'm ready to pay whatever price it might come with, really. You can't ruin this for me," Martin promised, and Jon smiled into his pillow.

"Fine. Don't tell me I didn't warn you."

"Good night, Jon. Really."

"Good night."

Their hands didn't part before Jon had already drifted to sleep.  
  


* * *

  
He could see the path clearly, until it wasn't there anymore. The mountain's roots were no longer visible in the lush valley below, and instead it expanded into shredded clouds as far as the eye could see with nothing to hold onto, should the climber's hold fail. Nothing to grab, nothing to even offer a moment's relief before the inevitable fall... just the straight, endless descent into the clouds below. The climber pressed his back to the mountain's smooth rock and prayed, and Jon watched him, his hands tied by his omnipresence - he was nothing, just an observer, and from somewhere else he could hear that woman screaming... he'd seen her before. Had she finally been caught by whatever had been pursuing her for so long?

What remained of the path was drawing closer to the mountain. The climber's footing was slipping. Rocks fell into the drop below, growing smaller and smaller until they could no longer be perceived. He wasn't the only prayer in Jon's ears anymore. There were many more - tens, then hundreds - crying and pleading and sobbing, all in vain. The horror in their voices was like rain upon Jon's skin, had he had any, but he barely remembered what it was like to be human. The only thing he knew was the fall when the man could hold on no more, and the sound of his breath after his vocal cords were broken by the scream. He didn't meet the ground to cut it short. There was no ground. There was only the fall, and the prayers, and the crying, and -

\- and the dark. Jon clawed at his sheets and tried to grab a hold of something solid, but he found nothing that made sense: the bed was too wide, the air too dense, too packed, and he wasn't sure of his orientation in all of it. The only thing he could clearly think of was that he _hated_ this, hated waking up every single night like this, in the dark, confused, uncertain if he _had_ woken up because sometimes, sometimes he woke up only to find out that someone was still out there begging for mercy, in his corridor, in his kitchen, downstairs somewhere or just outside the door. _Help me. Somebody - anybody - please help me. I don't want to die. I don't want to die._

The sheets came off, but it was the last thing in Jon's mind as he dragged them upwards, because at that moment he felt something else - something he hadn't expected. A touch. He had to still be asleep, then, and he didn't want to know what was touching him. There was no chance in hell it was anything good, and he'd had enough of the dying and the damned, so by the time the grip fastened around his shoulder he was well on his way out of the bed. To do what, he wasn't sure; finding a speeding car to _wake up_ was starting to sound like the least dramatic solution to his problem.

"Jon. Jon, it's me. Jon - it's _alright._ It's alright. Just a dream. Calm down."

Martin's voice. Jon swallowed, frozen somewhere in the midst of his movement to climb up from the bed: he had one foot on the floor and the other twisted, painfully bent somewhere underneath his own hip. Martin sounded... breathless, concerned, a little asleep... he sounded _normal_ where it mattered, and that normalcy was pulling Jon back from his determination although he couldn't justify the man's presence in _his_ bedroom of all places. He started to let go - and God, did he want to just _let go_ \- and his weight fell back onto the bed and he straightened his twisted leg and reached to rub at his knee that throbbed from the angle it had been forced into. Martin's hand turned from a grip to a touch; he let it wander down Jon's back and then up again until he'd wrapped his arm around his shoulders. He was crawling closer now, all the way until his body was against Jon's, and he pulled Jon towards himself and Jon let it happen. He rested his body against Martin's and he could feel his own rapid pulse echoing from Martin's chest, but at the same time he could feel Martin's heart against his back and it was quiet and calm, and its rhythm was reassuring.

That's right, Jon recalled; he'd invited Martin in for the night. He hadn't wanted to go back home after they'd gone out together: he'd wanted to escape his own demons. This is where Jon had fallen asleep - in his own bed, with this man beside him, the man whose scent now enveloped him and which he breathed in like a drug to ease the pressure within, the steady flow of adrenaline in his veins that still wanted him to _run_.

"Are you with me?" Martin asked, his voice soft and sleepy and reassuring, gentle; all the shades of warmth that Jon desperately needed.

He nodded shortly; his voice wasn't with him yet, but he was with Martin, he could _almost_ tell apart the real from the dream already. Instead of speaking he lifted his hand to touch Martin's, and Martin pressed a kiss over his cheek from behind him, his jawline prickling pleasantly against Jon's skin.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"No," Jon found the strength in him somewhere to push the word out.

Martin nodded.  
"That's alright. Would you like me to keep talking?"

Jon nodded. He wanted to close his eyes - he was so tired - but the dread lingered in the darkness through which his eyes couldn't perceive a thing and he rather kept staring into the dim, hazy outline of his bedroom than the impenetrable nothing behind his lids. 

"Alright, well... I don't remember having any dreams myself, so I can't recite one for you. I'm not sure if you'd even like to hear about that, though, so maybe it's for the best," Martin started, his fingertips tracing over Jon's hand before he reached for it and pressed it between Jon's own shoulder and his soft palm. "I mean, that'd be a bit like gloating, wouldn't it? Look at me, I had a _nice_ dream. Wouldn't you want that to be you? Anyway, I - I did sleep really well. It's so nice in here, Jon. Your place is... really nice."

Jon rubbed the back of his head against Martin and let his body relax against him. His eyes were stinging bad and he was quickly approaching that place again where he couldn't quite tell apart what was here and what was in his head, but... he didn't have it in him to fight it.

"You were so worried about waking me up," Martin continued, "Like this would be something awful that would make me hate you or something. Well, is this so bad? I - I like you being so close to me. I like talking to you. I don't know if you like listening to me, but I hope you do."

He brought his other arm around Jon's waist and pressed his nose into his hair, and for a moment he stayed quiet and Jon had a hard time telling where each of them ended and where the other one began. Then he felt an implicit tug around his body; he didn't resist when Martin tilted them both back on the bed and pulled the covers over them again. Whose, Jon didn't know - what he did know was that they were now under the same blanket, and Martin's warmth was quickly doing away with the hell that was still lurking around the far edges of his mind. He finally closed his eyes, his body drawing back into Martin's, and Martin chuckled quietly into the back of his head, his chin lifting then to rest on the top.

"I have a deal for you," Martin said, and Jon managed to squeeze his hand to let him know that he was still listening to him - if just barely. "If you sleep well the rest of the night, I'll let you sleep longer tomorrow and bring you breakfast in bed. The library's closing again for the holidays, neither of us needs to be anywhere... I'll wake up before you because I've actually had some sleep before in my life, you know? It'll be nice and snowy outside and the sun will be shining and things will be _just_ right and you'll have a cup of tea and whatever else I find in your kitchen, and you don't even have to get out of bed. I think that sounds nice."

His breath came in warm huffs into Jon's hair, and he held his hand tighter, his fingers tracing over the side of Jon's palm over and over again in a rhythm that mixed into and merged with his breathing.

"I'm so happy to be here, Jon," he whispered then. "I want this to last for a long time."

It was easy to sleep beside him the rest of the night.


End file.
